Brookland
Today I put deodorant on my lips thinking it would work like chapstick.
Color me crazy, but I'll argue that my roommate Lesley’s cat, Karma, has intentions to seduce me with his sleek, black hair and smart yellow eyes that say soothingly “I know, I know…but I still don’t give a damn.”
I moved to Brooklyn on Sunday. The apartment is quite nice - high ceilings, large bedrooms, and a small, unkept garden in the back. Moving into a new home is like doing a crossword, or a puzzle. You have to figure out what goes in the blank spots with clues given by the space itself. This does not exclude one’s body. I keep smashing my head on a glass shelf every time I stand up from turning the shower on. I must get used to moving about the space. My body must learn how to respond to the language of this obstacle course. “A nice Ikea end-table would fit quaintly in this corner. The wall right here is just begging for an abstract landscape.” I should just call up that annoying woman from Trading Spaces with the huge teeth and horrible hair – Paige – and have someone else decorate my space. It would be fun to decorate someone else’s because you could do something absolutely repulsive. I would insist on everything being mustard yellow. Everything. And maybe put a big, diagonal, hot-pink stripe across the wall. I would only carpet half of the floor, and place a table with two legs on, and two legs off the rug. This would guarantee things would be spilled at some point. Then I would go to Sears and have my portrait taken against the Christmas backdrop with a larger transparency of my face superimposed in the upper right-hand corner. This would hang above the mantle and someone would definitely cry.
Karma moves about a new space as any cat would – being completely confident it his uncertainty. After he moves his bowels in the plastic igloo littler box, he scurries about, excited from that feeling of unloading something bothersome. He leaps and attempts to roar. Some great ancestor in him was a panther, and he knows it. In fact, he’s cocky about it.
Cats don’t always have the time to be bothered by our pathetic, neediness. Sometimes they’ll let you cuddle, and other times they’ll look at you like it's just all wrong and why do you insist on speaking to them in that shrill, whiney tone. They’re so manipulative. In the end, though, they simply want to be loved like you or I. And if that requires playing hard-to-get, so be it. I may fall under Karma’s spell after all.
Karma, if you’re reading this, then I want you to know that I saw you chewing on my brown tie. You pretended to be doing something else when you realized that I was watching. You’re not that clever, and I’m not that stupid. Does Lesley know you are using her computer?
Color me crazy, but I'll argue that my roommate Lesley’s cat, Karma, has intentions to seduce me with his sleek, black hair and smart yellow eyes that say soothingly “I know, I know…but I still don’t give a damn.”
I moved to Brooklyn on Sunday. The apartment is quite nice - high ceilings, large bedrooms, and a small, unkept garden in the back. Moving into a new home is like doing a crossword, or a puzzle. You have to figure out what goes in the blank spots with clues given by the space itself. This does not exclude one’s body. I keep smashing my head on a glass shelf every time I stand up from turning the shower on. I must get used to moving about the space. My body must learn how to respond to the language of this obstacle course. “A nice Ikea end-table would fit quaintly in this corner. The wall right here is just begging for an abstract landscape.” I should just call up that annoying woman from Trading Spaces with the huge teeth and horrible hair – Paige – and have someone else decorate my space. It would be fun to decorate someone else’s because you could do something absolutely repulsive. I would insist on everything being mustard yellow. Everything. And maybe put a big, diagonal, hot-pink stripe across the wall. I would only carpet half of the floor, and place a table with two legs on, and two legs off the rug. This would guarantee things would be spilled at some point. Then I would go to Sears and have my portrait taken against the Christmas backdrop with a larger transparency of my face superimposed in the upper right-hand corner. This would hang above the mantle and someone would definitely cry.
Karma moves about a new space as any cat would – being completely confident it his uncertainty. After he moves his bowels in the plastic igloo littler box, he scurries about, excited from that feeling of unloading something bothersome. He leaps and attempts to roar. Some great ancestor in him was a panther, and he knows it. In fact, he’s cocky about it.
Cats don’t always have the time to be bothered by our pathetic, neediness. Sometimes they’ll let you cuddle, and other times they’ll look at you like it's just all wrong and why do you insist on speaking to them in that shrill, whiney tone. They’re so manipulative. In the end, though, they simply want to be loved like you or I. And if that requires playing hard-to-get, so be it. I may fall under Karma’s spell after all.
Karma, if you’re reading this, then I want you to know that I saw you chewing on my brown tie. You pretended to be doing something else when you realized that I was watching. You’re not that clever, and I’m not that stupid. Does Lesley know you are using her computer?
posted by Joshua Oshua at 5:14 PM
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